


devoid/devotion

by darkviverna



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Serial Killers, losing touch with reality, slight gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-04-14 12:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkviverna/pseuds/darkviverna
Summary: His dreams were full of blood-dripping walls and crying children, and monsters with metal claws and rotten teeth.______Events following FNAF 4 from Michael's viewpoint.





	1. vindicated

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first polished work and first fanfic for FNAF fandom! This is super Michael heavy and deals with a lot of issues, so if you don't enjoy that kind of stories I would suggest to not read it.

**1984, October 27**

  
  The sun began to set outside and it’s dying orange light cast long, inky-black shadows along the Afton property. They shifted and danced in the wind, long claws and sharp teeth visible upon the green grass near the house. The surrounding woods groaned and laughed, moving in tandem with the shadows. The macabre dance of nature enchanted Michael. He sat on the kitchen table, eyes lost and distant, only aware of far away swaying of the forest and the reddening glow of the sun. Soon, tall branches of the pines and the firs blocked out the sunset on the horizon, and the only source of light in the spacious room was the small table lamp. Mike blinked, his mind and awareness coming back to the house, to the kitchen, to the table. Like many times before, he wished it didn’t.

  
  He sighed, and his posture melted with the exhale of the air. Tiredness always caught up to him in the evening, even though he haven’t done anything energy-demanding all day. Michael would go to school, space out the entire time he was there, and then crawl back home and wait. Sometimes he would make diner and eat in silence. Sometimes he wouldn’t eat until the school lunch the next day. And the other times, his father would come home early and those days were unpredictable at best.

  
  Mike put his head on his crossed arms, and just breathed. Another day lived. Another day in the dead silence of the house, his only companion being the soft ticking of the clock. In a brief moment, Michael considered just falling asleep here. Yes, it wasn’t the most comfortable location, but the idea of going up the stairs and seeing the closed doors to three empty rooms set his stomach turning. Most days it wasn’t that bad - he could just walk by, not sparing the glance to the blue and pink doors, and even avoid looking in the direction of his parents’ (his father’s now) room. But on the days like this (is it always Tuesdays, he wonders?), he would rather sleep outside on the cold, hard ground than in his bed.

  
  Inhale, exhale. Feels like hours has passed, and maybe they did - the ticking of the clock tended to just blur the passing of time, make minutes into hours and hours into seconds. Michael turned his head, forcing his glassy eyes to focus on the wall nearby, where the clock hang. The fang-sharp handles indicated that it was barely past eight in the evening. The boy set up, frowning, almost expecting his vision to clear up and time to change. But the claw-like handles stayed the same, only moving with the natural flow of the seconds. It set Mike on edge.

  
  William Afton’s shift ended at six. He would then take about twenty to thirty minutes to get home. He was late. Michael’s father was late, and it almost made the boy shiver. He was late like this only once a month or two, and Mike knew perfectly well what it meant. They, of course, never discussed it (the two barely talked anymore, barely talked for years), but Mike suspected, and William knew that Mike suspected. It was obvious in their body language, how Michael would avoid his father and make himself look smaller anytime the older Afton was around. And William would smile like he never smiled Before, with too many teeth and chilling stares, and Mike immediately knew what it meant the first time he saw it.

  
  He felt lost. He knew that his father will be gone for a while, maybe even until early morning. Michael had the house to himself for hours, then. Before, that would sound amazing: he would trash every room, eat all the sweets and stay up until late in the night. But now, he just wanted to sleep. Maybe, he can take the couch - Mike doubted that father would be that mad if he wasn't sleeping in his bed. William didn't get mad with him a lot, though. He never hit him, never screamed at him. Michael was still terrified.

  
  The house was far too silent, and this absence of sound weighed down at teen’s shoulders. A year ago, their dog Lucky would go around barking all night and Father would yell at it to shut up all the way across the house but never actually do anything about it. His little brother James would talk and talk for hours, sometimes laugh or cry, and it would annoy Michael to no end. Now, though, he missed the noise, he hated himself for missing the noise, he hated himself for being the reason there was no noise anymore. The Afton family was quiet even then, absent of the Mother’s friendly chatting and Elizabeth’s ringing laughter. But Mike was convinced they could pull through, convinced himself that things will go back sooner or later to how they were before. And then he made everything worse.

  
  Michael would cry, but he rarely does so anymore. He didn’t cry a lot in the first place, and the events of the past year or so just left him empty, barely running on fumes. Michael was so, so tired and the tiredness never went away, it just grew stronger and stronger with every day and he was just waiting to collapse under its weight. Sometimes, he envies his father. Most of the time, though, he is too scared to analyse William’s coping mechanisms and state of mind in general. He really would rather not dwell into his Father’s thoughts, honestly.

  
  He rolls his head up, staring at the ceiling, collecting his thoughts, He should eat. He should wash the dishes. Maybe even vacuum the first floor. Do homework, definitely. Get his shit together and at least attempt to live like a normal human being. Stop being scared of his own Dad and not flinch whenever any noise is made. Wouldn’t that be nice? None of this will happen, of course - Michael knew, deep down in his bones, that nothing will ever go back to the way it was before.

  
Doorbell rang.

  
  Mike jumped up, eyes immediately present and aware, breathing slightly picked up. He remained standing near the table, staring in general direction of the entrance door, almost expecting something to pounce out of the shadows, something full of teeth and claws and rot. His father never rang the bell or even knocked - he would open the door wide, shut it close with way too much force and then stalk across the house fast and way too quiet to be natural. And nobody visited them - their neighbors lived quite far away, and they felt awkward visiting the house of a family that lost three of its members in the span of a little over two years.

  
The doorbell rang again.

  
  Its noise forced Michael into action - quickly, he walked up to the main hallway, turning on the light and staring nervously down to the door. He didn’t allow himself to stop for long, afraid to freeze and be stuck in one position for the rest of the night. Mike peered through the peephole of the entrance door, but averted his gaze in the next second, mouthing silent “fuck”. He felt the sweat slowly forming on his back and neck, but he forced himself to calm down. Taking one quick breath, he opened the door, putting on his best friendly smile.

  
  On the porch of the Afton house, two police officers stood. One of them was a woman in her mid-thirties, her raven-black hair tied in a strict ponytail. Next to her stood a younger man, with short curly hair and dark skin. They both were dressed in dark blue police uniform, that reminded Mike of Fazbear’s purple guard suits. He hated those with great passion. Police officers smiled, but there was stiffness in their movement that Mike didn’t like.

  
  “Mr. Afton?”, the younger officer asked, while the other took out a notebook. Michael quickly glanced at it, noticing a list of names. A few were crossed out. Some weren’t.  
“Michael Afton, yeah. How can I help you, officers?”, the lack of greeting on their part only made the teenager more anxious, but he wouldn’t let it show. He wasn’t as good of an actor as his father was, but he had some skill, and was more than ready to use it.

  
  “We would like to talk to your Dad, if that’s okay,” the young officer continued, and Mike could see that both of them were trying to peer inside the house. He straightened his back and stood more in the middle of the door opening. It was too dark inside, and they wouldn’t see anything anyway, but their lack of tact started to anger him instead of scare. That was the only other thing Michael felt, creating a range of emotions from tired to scared to furious. There was rarely an in-between.  
“He is not home. He is out with his work friends for the drinks. Is everything alright?”

  
  Mike couldn’t keep his annoyance out of his voice, both nerved out and angered at officers’ attitudes. Cops around here weren’t the nicest people at best times, but after the ‘Missing Children’ incident in the 70’s and continuous disappearances they lost most of their charm. Michael could understand that those investigation probably ate away at them, but Michael was also too tired to deal with anyone’s shit. He has to deal with his own problems. And now, he will have to cover for his Father, who is probably off somewhere, stained in blood and laughing. He looked like the kind of person to do that.

  
  “When will he come home?”, was all the answer he got, and it didn’t ease any of his anxiety. They didn’t ask where William Afton was, either - Mike assumed they were way too done with interviewing people. Which was a far from good excuse for officers of the law, but hey, who was Michael to complain? Their indifference was the best for the Aftons.

  
  “Sometime past eleven, like, eleven-thirty?”, he tried to say as casually as he could and hoping that eleven was too late for the officers to came back or care. And also hoped that his father won’t skin him alive for possibly providing an alibi no one can confirm. The officers seemed torn, though the teen didn’t care enough to even guess the reasons for their behavior anymore. He wanted them gone.  
After another moment of a tense silence, they seemed to come to a decision.

  
  “We will come by tomorrow,” and they left. Mike watched them go until they took a turn out of the driveway and then closed and locked the door to the house. He turned off the lights in the hallway, mindlessly walking over to the living room and practically falling into the large chair. A sigh escaped through his chapped lips, and he melted into the armchair, bones seemingly non-existent. His muscles ached and he felt a headache coming in along with a series of twisted, dark thoughts and unending worries.

  
  What if they check in at eleven and Father won’t be home?

  
  What if they find out Michael lied to them?

  
  What if Father won’t come back even after the dawn of the next day?

  
  What if it is truly the end of this family?

  
  Teen felt his mind spiral down, vivid images of red-colored bathroom and blood trailing down mechanical jaws, a tear-stricken face and mangled head with auburn hair. Memories become mixed, innocent laughter shifts into deep voice of the Fazbear animatronics, summer breeze continues into raspy breathing, and tree-filled horizon shift into rows and rows of sharp teeth. Green eyes and blue eyes and red glowing ones, staring deep into his soul and ripping it apart piece by piece.  
Michael jerked up and reached out for the TV remote, turning it on and leaving some cheesy soap opera on, distracting himself with meaningless noise and flashing images of people in fake distress. But even as he felt himself drift to sleep, his eyelids getting copper-heavy and fluttering closed, he could still hear mocking laughter from the maws with too many teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try my best to keep a decent update schedule. See ya then!  
> Title from Vindicated by Dashboard Confessionals.  
> EDITED: fixed a few mistakes.


	2. a little death

##  **1984, October 28**

 His dreams were full of blood-dripping walls and crying children, and monsters with metal claws and rotten teeth. There were nothing unusual, and honestly much more mild than the ones he had during nights following James hospitalization and soon demise. Michael used to dream of his brother skull crushing under the pressure of the animatronic jaws, the sick sound echoing in his head for hours after he would wake up. Mike was thankful that his siblings didn’t visit him often in his nightmares. Now, though, he would see his Father in them more often. He would see his body deform into a tall grinning shadow, covered in blood from head to toe, and he would hold the sharp edge of his knife to Mike’s throat. But more harrowing were the ones where William Afton would push the handle of the blade into his son’s hands and wait for him continue his legacy. Michael wouldn’t go to bed for days after those nightmares, dreading ever experiencing the state of sleeping again.

 He suddenly felt the pressure on his left shoulder, claws digging in into his flesh and tearing him apart, and a robotic voice calling his name, mocking him, and he was ready to writhe out and to scream -

 “Michael!”

 Teen finally woke up, but instead of jumping he pressed himself deeper into the couch, hyperventilating as he gripped the armrests of the chair. He looked up, frantic, heartbeat deafening in his own ears, and was met with cold, blue eyes of his Father. Mike froze, deer caught in the headlights, but forced himself to relax as much as he could. William Afton’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder as teen slowly deflated. Their eyes were locked for another five seconds before the older Afton moved away, giving one last emotionless pat on his son’s shoulder. Michael could finally inhale, losing the sense of being paralysed.

 He turned his head towards the living room clock that was softly ticking away. Three-fifteen in the morning. That means Mike has been asleep for at least six hours, but that wasn’t surprising. He would alternate between sleeping for almost entire day, especially on the weekends, to staying awake for more than forty-eight hours. He guessed he would’ve continued to navigate the nightmarish landscape his mind provided up until it was time to get up to school if his Father hadn’t woken him up.

 The living room was dimly lit by the TV screen and soft light coming from the kitchen. The TV-show provided a flow of background noise that further soothed Michael down enough for him to become aware of his current surroundings. His Father came home, probably only few minutes before he awoke Mike. The older Afton was in the kitchen, judging by the sound of the fridge opening and shadows moving in the kitchen doorway. Mike inhaled sharply and stood up, slowly walking up to the room William Afton was currently at.

 Mike knew he had to tell Father about the cops, but he was afraid of the reaction he would get from the man, though William never was openly violent towards him. But he was not so sure about his state of mind or mood after a night like this and didn’t want to risk his safety and health. But Michael had to do this, because the consequences of him keeping quiet about the police’s visit would be far more severe than if he just informs his Father of the truth.

 Teen walked up to the kitchen doorway, momentarily blinded by the brighter light in the room before his tired eyes adjusted on the sitting form of William Afton. His Father sat at the side of the table, still in his purple uniform, and was eating the leftover lasagna from the Monday’s dinner. The man seemed to pay no mind to his teenage son, who kept standing in the opening, uncertain of how he should approach this conversation.

 His eyes ran up down William Afton’s form. His brown hair was mussed and sticking in all direction, there were slight bags under his eyes (not as big as under Mike’s) and his face was covered with a short stubble. The purple night guard uniform was crumpled and, as his eyes traveled down the pant leg, Mike could see dark spots of blood near the black shoes. He forced his gaze to come back up to his Father’s face, feeling sick from even seeing the tiniest evidence of William Afton’s monthly activities.

 “Father?”, he might as well rip this band-aid off and hope for the best.

 “What, Michael?”, older Afton asked in return, but he didn’t seem agitated or angry. That’s a good start. But now, for the harder part.

 “Police came by in the evening,” Mike continued and saw his Father tense up. For a second, both of them hold their breath, and the ticking of the clock went maddeningly loud. When his Father hadn’t reply, Mike continued.

 “There were asking where you were. I told them you were out with friends,” teen recited the events quickly and quietly, ready to back away in case these news upset Father too much. There was a beat, and another one, before William exhales.

 “Smart,” he comments with a slight smirk that sends Mike’s stomach turning. Older Afton takes another bite out the leftovers, but his son doesn’t speak. He knows that his Father is not done, can see it in the mimic of his face, the way his eyes were alight and burning. “They will come by again today, then?”, William Afton glances for a second at Michael, who only nods and adds a quiet “yeah”.

 “I will come home early tomorrow. Wouldn’t wanna miss our friends in blue, right?” he chuckles knowingly and smiles that terrifying smile that has Michael tensing up slightly. His Father glances at the teen again. “You did good today,” he comments and Mike, despite everything, can’t help but feel relieved and pleased, “You should go to your bed, wouldn’t wanna go to school tired, right?” William Afton says and stands up, taking the dishes to the sink.

 Mike made a mental note to wash them after school and was about to turn around and walk up the dreaded staircase when his eyes were again caught by the dark splotches at the end of the uniform pants. Michael exhales.

 “Your pants are stained,” he had murmured softly, devoid of emotion, and turned around to walk upstairs. He feels his Father’s eyes burrowing into his back before he disappeared out of William’s sight.

 The stairs creaked quietly under his feet. They barely produced noise under the pressure, but in the deafening silence of the Afton home it echoed in Michael’s mind, getting louder with each step. The path upstairs kept getting darker, the soft light from the living room and the kitchen diffusing into oily shadows. Mike kept his eyes downcast, panic slowly rising in his throat and threatening to choke him. He was afraid to look up, to see figures move in the field of his vision. They were always there, watching, waiting. Sometimes, Mike would see their tall, bulky outlines out of the corner of his eye, but they moved away and disappeared from his sight when the teen turned around.

 The hallways in the second floor of the Afton house would confuse the guests (back when they had those) on multiple occasions, but Michael could walk in here blind. Most of the times he did just so - leave the passage dark and look at the floor as he sped walked to his room at the end of long hallway, doing his best to ignore multiple other doors before his. His Father’s room was the one closest to the exit, edges of the wood slightly dented and small pieces missing from how hard William Afton would shut the entrance to his room. Next was a pink door with chapped coating. Rainbow-colored alphabet letters used to decorate it, words arranged to spell ‘Elizabeth’. That door wasn’t opened up for almost two years now, except on rare occasions when Father was having a rather emotional day. William always blamed himself for the incident, though Mike wasn’t sure if the man could truly feel guilt at all.

 Seeing the next door upset Michael much more than the one to his dead sister’s room. The blue door, in slightly better condition that Lisa’s, led to James’ room. Mike made his youngest sibling suffer so much. He made his little brother cry for hours, he would scare him and tease him without remorse, would displace all of his anger on James. It was only his fault that James skull was crushed and that he fell into a coma. It was his fault that James never woke up, that he faded away until the line went flat. William Afton was a terrifying monster wearing a human suit, but Michael would often find himself much more inhuman and disgusting than his Father ever was.

 The teen sped up, heart pounding loud in his chest. He dared to look up and nervously checked all the dark corners of the hallway.  Something moved away as he looked up, red glow of mechanical eyes reflecting in metallic claws. It was gone, it would be for a while.  Now, the passage was empty. And dark. It felt like it stretched into infinity and he would get lost here, in the walls of his house, for eternity. He already felt trapped in here anyway.

 Mike gulped and opened the dark grey door into his room, quickly and quietly closing it behind himself. He turned on the small table lamp on his school desk (which he rarely used nowadays) and set on the edge of his bed. Teen’s room was a mess, clothes and papers piled on the floor, but Michael payed them no mind. He stared off into the distance, eyes becoming unfocused and glassy. His limbs felt heavy and led-like, like the arms of the spring-lock suits. Everything was silent except Mike’s slow, rhythmic breathing. His room didn’t have the old fashioned clocks as  downstairs, and without the monotonic ticking time flowed differently. He could look at the bedside electronic clock, and Michael couldn’t move. He didn’t feel paralysed or scared, but just empty and limitlessly tired, like he was out of batteries. Tired beyond sleeping, tired beyond functioning.

 His trance was broken by the sound of soft footsteps and a door opening and closing harshly down the hallway. Mike blinked several times, returning briefly into the reality. The teen sighed deeply, pulling off his hoodie and lying on the bed atop the blankets. Teen stared off into the ceiling for a while, mildly aware that he should sleep. But the dreams and nightmares never came. Some time passed. Afterwards, some more. And more.

 Mike turned his head to the side, red bulky numbers of the electric clock reading “5:54”. He would usually wake up at six, but this time he stayed up the remaining of the night. His father would still be asleep, Afton Sr would only wake up as Michael was about to leave for school around six-thirty. Mike would sometimes leave early to avoid his Father, or stay late to avoid school. He never skipped entire day, though, the house suffocating him when he was alone.

 His Father was a poor company and would often leach the life out of Michael, but his presence was better than being left alone in solitary silence. To be honest, Mike’s view of the older Afton shifted constantly from him merely recognizing the creature in human skin as his Dad, to Michael being too afraid to leave his Father’s side, afraid of harm coming to him. Afraid to be left all alone, the last Afton alive. Sometimes, the sheer terror of the idea of being all alone in the world outweighed the fear his Father naturally induced into him by just being himself.

 He continue to lay down until the clock was a minute away from his usual departure time. Time changed slowly now, and Michael felt his melancholy deepen. His tiredness went away, as did his fears and anger. He was truly empty now, a vessel without a passengers. Just a sole pilot, ready for take off.

 Mike stood up, grabbing his warm and crumpled jacket from the floor and his worn down backpack, heading downstairs. He passed the hallway quickly, paying no mind to his siblings’ rooms or the open door to his Father’s bedroom. He went down the stairs, almost jumping down all the way and skipping a few steps. He registered movement in the living room area, but paid it no mind. Michael only stopped in entryway hallway to put on his shoes and he was gone out the door, only saying a cold “goodbye”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tittle from A Little Death by The Neighborhood.  
> I will try to finish the third chapter by the end of the week! Also might add art once i'm of the artist block lol.  
> Comments are appreciated)


	3. over and over again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw suicide mention at the end of chapter, it's not explicit at all, but just heads up. If you don't want to read it, just skip the last small paragraph.

##  **1984, October 31**

 For Mike, school was an unintelligible blur of colors and screeching sounds. He usually drifted away during the classes, staring out the window or laying his head on his crossed arms on the desk and not bothering to pay any attention. People tended leave him alone, some due to fear or disgust, others in sympathy or pity. Michael didn’t care at all about their feelings, as long as he was left unbothered. He was never called on by the teachers, unless it was one of those days when the class had a substitute who somehow didn’t get the hint. They would call on him and and get confused or even mad when Michael wouldn’t response. Someone would then pipe up and tell the sub to not bother Afton, either stopping at short “everyone leaves him alone” or going into lengthy and unnecessary explanation of the tragic events of the past that Mike would just tuned out.

 He wasn’t really bullied. Mike was a bully himself before, with a cliche group of a half-brained idiots who were too angry and too impulsive to stay out of trouble. His rage went unchecked by the adults and after the ‘incident’ two years ago his behavior only worsened. Michael would get into the fights more often, coming home with bruises and split lips. On one memorable occasion he even got an infection in his scraped knuckles. That was far from the nicest memory Mike had.

 Many expected his behavior to worsen after what he’d done to James, but instead the teen just shut down, escaped into his inner world. People kept away, still put off by his reputation and probably by the fact that he practically killed his own fucking brother. He had a few instances where people would come up to him and accuse him of all the vile in the world, but mostly they were just trying to get a reaction out of him. Michael would just roll his eyes and walk away. Nobody dared to get physical with him.

 Until today, apparently, because people can only be put off by tragedies of his family for so long before they exploit his obvious weaknesses. Sometimes, just sometimes, Michael wished the world would be kinder to him, but he learned long ago that the world has no kindness for him. It had only curses and woes in store for Afton Jr.

 Michael knew that something was off the moment he was surrounded by a bunch of kids outside the school during lunch, but he didn't quite expect what came next. He felt someone’s fist connect to the side of his face, loud ringing filling his ears as he spit blood on the dull concrete. Mike herd laughter and shouting, but their sources seemed to be far away. The teen stared at the red spots on the ground, the liquid already soaking into the cracks. He inhaled deeply, feeling his breathing and pulse quicken both due to the injury and the newly blooming anger.

 If they want to dance, he will dance.

 Mike straightened out, ignoring the intense pain of a forming bruise. He felt cold, as if someone poured near-frozen water on his head. It was a familiar feeling, state of not-existing, of living in another layer of reality and watching his own self act. And, as a fist was raised against him again, Michael Afton landed a hit faster than his attacker. The teen who punched him fell, clutching his stomach as the world around returned to its usual colors, multiple voices of students becoming louder and more understandable.

 Mike didn’t pay attention to them, though. Mike only stared with cold eyes on the boy on the concrete floor, as his friends helped him up and scrambled away. Someone yelled “freak” or “psycho” or something else, and it left a bottomless void in Michael’s stomach hat he didn’t know how to fill. Din’t know if he should even think of filling. He came to a terrifying conclusion, the one he suspected was true for a long time but didn’t dare to admit it himself.

 He really was his father’s son.

 Michael heard his last name called quite angrily and he snapped his head to the source. A teacher was walking quite menacingly towards the teen, and he contemplated running away and skipping school. Getting expelled won’t be such a bummer, anyway - studies were nowhere near the top of his worries. He clutched to the idea of education as the last attempt to keep at least a sliver of normality in his abnormal life, but it was pointless. Mike knew all along that it was pointless, but he still tried, hopelessly hopeful. Now everything was crashing down, it was crashing down for a long time now, and the boy was now certain he couldn’t could save any shards of his old life. So he decided to let it crash to dust.

 “Mr. Afton, walk with me,” the teacher, a women in her late fifties and with a questionable taste in glasses, hissed through gritted teeth. She grabbed Mike’s left arm harshly and started leading him away from the schoolyard and back into the building. Michael hated the contact, could feel it burn through the layers of clothes he wore. He allowed her to drag him, ignoring the stares of people in the hallways. He kept his eyes straight ahead, everything around turning into a blur of unsaturated colors. He still felt cold, but not as frozen as before. Mike didn’t want to thaw just yet. The teen doubted that he could survive this experience without a messy breakdown if he could feel all the things he should feel in the moment.

 Finally, they stopped in front of the principal's office and Mike was shoved inside. Teen stumbled, his feet suddenly refusing to work, as he stared absently onto the closed door behind him. He could see the teacher’s departing figure slowly disappear behind the blurred glass, the silhouette becoming formless and indistinguishable. Michael let himself exhale then. He subconsciously rubbed his left arm, relieved that the pressure was lifted off it. It didn’t really bother him, not as much as his jaw or his state of mind, but it was still uncomfortable.

 Someone cleared their throat behind him and Mike spun around, almost tripping on his own feet. He turned his head in direction from which the sound came from. His grey eyes landed on the sitting figure of the school’s principal. He was a man in his forties, and the name tag on the desk claimed him to be Mr.Brown. Michael had seen the head of the school before on multiple occasions, and was not surprised at all to be sent into his office. However, the was never the victim of bullying before, quite the opposite. The air in the office seemed suffocating and heavy, but maybe Afton’s mind was playing tricks on him. He could barely tell the difference nowadays.

 “Please, sit down, Michael,” Principle Brown gestured to the old chair in front of the desk. The man’s voice wasn’t strained or unkind, and that alone elevated some of Mike’s tension. Not all of it, though, far from it, but it was a start. He took the seat, eyes downcast. Michael could barely keep them open, tired and weightless, but he doubted that the Principle would appreciate him taking a nap in his office after a fight on school grounds.

 Something moved towards Mike’s face and he lifted his gaze to find an outstretched hand holding a tissue.  Upon seeing teen’s confused expression, the principle just silently gestured to his face. Michael only felt his own confusion grow as he lifted his own hand to his lips, finding them still wet with blood. The teen stared at his red-coated fingertips absently, before he reluctantly accepted principal’s offering and cleaned his face to the best of his ability. He slightly winced at the stinging sensation from the pressure on his bruised face, but didn’t complain. In the end, a bruised jaw and a bleeding lip were nothing serious.

 Mr.Brown waited until the teen discarded the tissue to start speaking.

 “I understand that you went through some… pretty tough stuff recently,” that was one way to put it, certainly, “And that no one should face bullying after such a tragedy,” Mike could sense a ‘but’ coming in, “But,” here it is, “You can’t just beat people up for that”, Mr.Brown’s face twisted with a small smile. Michael did not return it. The Principle sounded like a wise old man, certain in the correctness of his advice, but Michael found him wrong. He won’t let people beat him up without retaliation. He won’t let anyone touch him. He won’t let anyone make his life more miserable than it already is. They deserved everything they got.

 Mike felt his anger fester again, but kept his mouth shut. His hands balled into fists, nail digging into the rough skin of his palms, but he remained silent. Mr. Brown didn’t notice teen’s slight change in the attitude, so Michael remained quiet and continued to pretend to listen. He nodded along to Mr. Brown’s cliche speech, but paid it no mind. It didn’t matter anyway, so why should he waste his energy on paying attention to it? The man doesn’t really care about him or the kid he had hurt - hell, his father might care more, - he just wanted to look good and powerful. Nothing new here.

 “...we informed your dad about what happened and Mr. Afton will be here shortly. He took the rest of his day off work to pick you up,” the principle said cheerfully, unaware of the cold chill running down Mike’s back. He stared ahead, glassy-eyed, the man in front of him blurring away into a formless blob. Michael couldn’t really comprehend his own train of thought, but was vaguely aware that it was along the lines of “this is bad”. The teen nodded along to whatever Mr.Brown was currently blubbering about, but he couldn’t get away from the feeling of weightlessness and absence.

 His Father will be here soon. He will be here soon, and it will end badly, because nothing ever ends in any positive way when Afton Sr. is involved. William always left things mangled and rusted and shattered to small pieces. And then, he would laugh about it, a mirthless, empty noise that would resonate against bare walls and Mike’s skull. And his Father will be mad, even furious, but no one would be able to tell - he will be wearing a well-constructed mask, a disguise so masterly crafted that to any passerby William Afton would seem as a normal, human person. Michael, no matter how devote to his family, could never consider Afton Sr. human.

 The Principal was as unaware as before - he stood up, motioning to Mike to get out of his chair and go outside to wait for the arrival of his certain doom. Michael’s dread grew exponentially, with no set goal in mind, a fear that was beyond paralyzing. At this point, the teen could tell that it was an unreasonable increase in his worries - he was certain he won’t die, but his brain was kicked into overdrive and refused to stay put together.

 He went through the motions of standing up and walking only being vaguely aware of them. Everything was sharp and in focus, every little detail of an ornament and the tiniest noise registered, and Michael felt himself locked in continuous fight-or-flight mode, unable to flee from the world around him. The closer he got to the parking lot in the back, the heavier his footsteps felt to his body. He was not walking towards the gallows, yet it felt like the day of his execution. And atop unending fear, fatigue and frustration begun to build up.

 Why couldn’t Mike just react like a normal person?

 Why did he have to freak out and lose sense of self?

 Why the hell was he so broken that every waking minute felt like a nightmare?

 And why couldn’t his Father hurry up and snatch Mike out of this state? Even if there will be yelling, or anger, or fist thrown, why did he have to make his son wait? Michael could almost hear the tick-toking of his house’s clock, chopping away at the unreasonably long seconds.

 The teen heard a sound of the grumbling engine and snapped his head in the direction of the noise. The sickly-purple car drove agonizingly slow through the school parking lot. Mike could not see the face of his father through the tinted windows, but the outline of his thin form was easily recognizable. Michael stayed glued to his spot, this was where Dad would pick him up from school from time to time. It was closer to the back of the school building, far away from usual pick up spots. Both Aftons appreciated the absence of large crowds.

Michael silently wondered if his Dad even cared. If he cared when they found Elizabeth’s mangled body inside of the robot’s stomach. If Father cared when he found his wife bloodied body in the bathtub. If he cared when James’ line went flat. If he ever cared about Michael at all. Mike was more afraid that he actually did. 

 Mike was afraid that monsters could love, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Over And Over Again by The Used(the video for the song partially inspired the fic's aesthetic)  
> Thanks for the wait)) Took me sometime because i kept re-writing the last few paragraphs .-.  
> Until the next time!)  
> EDIT: fixed some grammatical errors.


	4. house of memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike: my mom is dead, my sister is a gore-y mess, i killed my brother and my dad is a serial killer.  
> William: this is so sad mangle play despacito

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic violence and gore, suicide mention, past characters' death

##  **1984, October 31; continued**

  The car stopped in front of the boy, it’s fumes poisoning the air around it with the sickly smell of gasoline. Michael didn’t waste time standing around and jumped into the shotgun seat, throwing his backpack in the back of the car where it landed with a soft ‘thump’. The automobile was nice, and clean, and slightly on the expensive side - William Afton could easily afford an even better model, but the man was strangely fond of his aged vehicle. Mike preferred to keep away from guessing why.

  A moment had passed, but the car didn’t move. The engine was still on, and it’s soft growling persisted as a background noise. Another moment passed. The air was growing heavy and Michael could feel the impatience roll off from his Father in waves, not unlike the way ocean would hit the rocky shores. It’s constancy and intensity weighted down on Mike until he gave in and looked over at the driver's seat. Michael visibly tensed as he met the ice-blue eyes of his Father, staring him down with a cold, unimpressed gaze. Afton Sr. was dressed in a suit - he probably had a meeting earlier in the morning, - but he looked just as menacing as when he sat in bloodied uniform on the kitchen table. He was definitely displeased, though to what degree was hard to tell. 

  A beat passed.

  “How’s your face?” Afton Sr. question seemed to lean on the casual side, but there was a metallic strain to his voice. Mike couldn’t tell if he was mad or disappointed, or maybe something else, due to his Father’s well crafted mask. The teen was both afraid and impatient to find out, to get it done with and regret his life decisions sometime later. Not like he had anything else to do with his miserable life.

  Michael reached for his face, fingers lightly brushing against his own cheek. Even at the softest of touches, the the bruises brought a shot of dull pain that made the teen wince. His lip was slightly puffy and the cut continued to get aggravated whenever Mike spoke, but he was certain that the injury wasn’t serious at all. There were no broken bones nor deep lacerations - nothing that wouldn’t heal in a week or two. And it would serve as a reminder of what happened to others, repellent against anyone else who might impulsively decide to start a fight with Michael Afton.

  “It’s fine,” the teen slightly cringed at both the pain he felt and the weakness of his own voice, looking away again. Mike could still feel the blue eyes burning holes through his head.

  “Doesn’t look fine to me,” William replied, this time unable to keep annoyance and hints of nearly surfacing anger from his tone. He didn’t seem to be mad at Mike, but Father’s intonation still set the teen on edge. Mike has seen his Father mad many times, and he knew the sight would be far from pretty. Afton Jr. couldn’t help but deflate against the car seat, slumping as much as he could. The boy was unconsciously trying to make himself seem smaller, afraid of the threat he wasn’t sure would come.

  “It’s fine, okay? I’m fine,” Mike’s retaliation lacked energy, and his tired voice was barely above a whisper. He was so done with this day, this week, this year and all the years before that. He was just fine with the idea of a day off school. And maybe the next day, too. Michael wouldn’t abandon school for forever, he was no quitter, but at this moment taking a little break sounded nice. Much nicer than the silence that continued to stretch through the car. Instead of concern or fear, Mike felt exponentially more annoyed. He just wanted to go home, collapse on the living room sofa and do nothing for hours. Not even sleep, just exist without a purpose. And he deserved at least that, dammit.

  “Can you just drive? I wanna go home,” he snapped in the direction of his Father, who gripped the wheel tighter for the moment before giving a slight nod. As the car started moving, the teen returned to his previous position. He stared out, watching the school and concrete blur out as the car got faster, the landscape shifting to short trees with yellow and orange leaves and the endless expense of the clouded grey sky.

  Michael felt his mind drift off, gently, like a boat rocking on a peaceful glide of water. And as he basked in the chill of the glass against his head and the warmth of his jacket, he couldn't help but wonder if all of this was connected. That every tragedy of the Afton family was brought on by the same catalysis. Was this the punishment his Father deserved, that left Mike a sole survivor, was he a victim to fate? Or were they just unlucky enough to find the mangled body of his sister, to be called back from school when Father found the bloodied bathtub, to miscalculate and leave his brother a breathing corpse (only for his breath to cease all together)?

  Mike had heard once that ruminating on something long past is of no use to the living, but he wholly disagreed. For this was not long past, no - it still affected him and what was left of his family, every day brought on by the ghosts of those he loved. Every dawn was the continuation of the dusk that settled on the day James died, every action was set in motion on the day Elizabeth was left alone with her own doom, every breath drawn entered the same lungs that heaved when Mother’s body was found, it was all connected by a single thread. And Michael doesn’t consider his existence as ‘living’ anyway.

_ 1982, January 7 _

  The restaurant was a conglomeration of loud, unintelligible noises that combined screeching of the small kids and the disgusting smells of almost-edible pizza and other, less recognizable objects classified as food. Michael found this one the least pleasing out of all places his Dad and his friend Henry constructed, and he was dragged to all of them on multiple occasions. But the sheer revolt he felt towards the decor, as well as the entourage of the terrifying, human-like animatronics and just the concentration of people on the opening night was unmatchable. 

  The scowl on Mike’s face deepened as he looked down towards James, who was gripping his torso like a life-line. His younger brother seemed to enjoy the outing even less, if his shivering and quiet sniffles were of any indication. Michael thought that his youngest sibling was simply way too spoiled (he himself wasn’t, of course) and _should_ _grow the hell up_ (he was 8 already) and stop being such a crybaby. In a more perfect world, Michael would have left him on his own devices and hanged out in some dark and lonely corner of the establishment, but Dad and Mom dumped James on the oldest brother and told him to keep an eye on the wimp. Which was less than ideal, but whatever.

  Elizabeth was lucky, because, well, she was weird, weirder even than their Dad, because she  _ adored _ the place. His little sister loved these huge, nightmare-inducing monsters with metallic teeth and off-putting voices, and Mike positively though she was out of her mind. But at least he only had to watch one little sibling, so there was that. Two little freaks were too much for him.

  Which brought him back to the problem at hand.

  “Ok, James, you need to let go of me, like, right now,” Michael said, becoming annoyed even more as his little only seemed to grip the older’s body tighter at his words. Mike huffed, slightly softening up at the endearing way James behaved, but not willing to show it. His discontent trumped his familial bond, anyway.

  “Buddy, friend, brother, let go of me,” the older brother gritted through his teeth, putting his hand on the smaller’s shoulder and gently trying to push him away. Again, the grip on his torso only became tighter. James mumbled a small ‘no’, causing Michael to let out a frustrated growl. 

  Mike was about to voice his protest, when James shifted, sniffled and mumbled “I’m scared”. And sure, Mike was a pretty shitty human being, but even he did not have the heart to keep pushing away after that.

  “Fine, whatever,” he mumbled, trying to hide away the smallest wave of affection for his little brother under the guise of continuous annoyance. James can hug him all he wants, as long as he is quiet. They should leave soon anyway, if the groups of kids leaving are of any indication.

  And then, someone screamed.

  The onstage music didn’t stop, but Michael’s heart sure did - he recognized his sister’s voice no matter what, he even heard her scream before (as an older brother, he was obligated to scare his younger siblings at least once a week), but this howl just set off all of his mediocre protective instincts. Yes, he is a jerk, but he is also an older brother.

  He ran towards the room from which the scream came, blood pounding deafeningly in his ears. He pushed past the people in his way, frozen in fear, and rushed towards the door. What he saw made him want to cease existing all together.

  Dad was already here, his back strung with tension, a figure still against the crimson-red sight in front of them. There were metal wires tearing through still bleeding flesh, bones snapped open and limbs bend in the most unnatural way, and among it all, lifeless green eyes and blood-soaked ginger hair. The spotlight was pointed at the sickening sculpture presented at the stage, animatronic’s blue eyes blinking on and off, light shimmering and dying in the machine.

  For a moment, everything was still. 

  Then, all hell broke loose.

  There was crying, and new fits of screaming, and Michael had to hug James tight to cover his eyes and ears, even though Mike felt himself falling apart at the seems. Their Father was shouting something into a phone, to the guards, to their weeping Mother, and fear kept creeping into Mike’s mind, screaming at him, trying to make him accept the reality, but he pushed back, denying it. All he could feel is the warmth of James in his arms and his little brother’s tears on his flannel, so Michael just held him closer and willed his head to be quiet. For James’ sake.

_ 1982, May 19 _

  Michael expected great many things when he was called into the principal's office. Another lecture about his behavior perhaps, or a mandatory visit to the school’s therapist that Mike would do his best to ignore, or even a suspension - he certainly was asking for that one with his constant lashing out, - but what he got was a moment of grim silence from Mr. Brown that immediately set the teen on edge. It reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite put a finger on, but it shook him deep to his bones with a metallic chill.

  “Mr. Afton, please sit down,” Mr. Brown said somberly and, okay, that just set off a million alarms at once. The principal was in no way a somber man, he was always overly cheerful and annoyingly optimistic, and Mike was never, under any circumstances, called ‘Mr. Afton’. Whatever this was, it was serious, the ‘Afton family troubles’ kinda serious, and that never, ever meant anything remotely good. Michael would know that by now.

  So he took a seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying to still his quivering body from showing his growing anxiety. He glanced at Mr. Brown after another moment of silence that did nothing to ease Michael’s panicking heart. The principal looked… tired, and sad, and surprisingly guilty. Mike audibly swallowed, afraid to choke on the words that were stuck now in his throat.

  The silence continued to grow heavy on Mike’s shoulders, dread pooling in a pit of his stomach as the clock on the wall kept ticking with a steady rhythm far slower than the blood pumping in his ears.

  “ Mike, I… I’m sorry, but, ah..,” it was obvious that Mr. Brown had troubles getting out whatever he was trying to say, and Michael got the worst sense on deja vu. He heard that tone four months ago.

_   ‘We’re sorry, but she was dead on arrival' _

_   ‘We’re sorry, but she was dead’ _

_   ‘We’re sorry’ _

_   ‘sorry’ _

  Michael couldn't quite comprehend whatever was said next, but he did catch ‘Sallie Afton’ and ‘passed away’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘Mr. Afton will get you’ and ‘sorry’. Mike didn’t realize he was crying until a sob broke through his lips, and he angrily wiped his face with his hands and grabbed his backpack, storming out of the office.

  He passed the hallways in a daze, bumping into other people and not bothering to pay any attention to them. Most steered out of his way, already afraid of his reputation and disturbed of his past, and even those who considered themselves brave before stayed out, not even meeting his eyes. He continued on his way, out of the school main building and out into the parking lot. The air was heated up from the bare concrete, but Mike didn’t care. Couldn't care about anything in the world.

  Michael guessed that sometime passed, because the sun was slightly lower in the sky and his Father’s purple car was driving up to the teen. He jumped up, eager for at least some comfort of a familial presence. The car stopped in front and Mike jumped in the back, where James already sat, sniffling quietly. Without another second, their Dad drove off, not breaking the silence.

  With some hesitation, Mike put his arm around James shaking frame, and his brother immediately leaned into him, staining his shirt with endless stream of tears, but Mike didn’t mind, trying to quiet down his own small sobs by clenching his jaws shut. Their Dad was quiet, and Mike couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then during their drive. The younger Afton could not see his face, and that fed into the general unease mike was feeling.

  His throat was till sore from all the sobs that died before making much noise, so it took him a few breaths before he could ask what was eating away at him all this time.

  “What...what happened?” 

  He was not graced with a reply. 

  He looked out of the window, noting that they were, surprisingly, not on their way home. Mike was confused for a second, but then he only felt new wave of dread and panic smother him down.

  They were at the Fazbear’s parking lot.

  Mike looked at his dad, shocked, and had to hold James closer as the boy started crying with a renewed vigor.

  “We… can’t go home right now.” Father finally said, and his voice rang hollow, and cold, but it was also strained and sore, not unlike Mike’s tone. 

  “What, why?!” Michael felt outraged - they deserved to to just spent the night at home, especially after all that happened, Dad couldn’t just -

  “Because,” William growled, effectively shutting his older son up, “the cleaning crew is not done with it.” And doesn’t that set off any more alarms.

  “Not done with what? Why is there a-a cleaning crew at out house?!”

  William didn’t answer.

  “Dad, what happened?” 

  His Father’s grip on the wheel tightened until the knuckles on his calloused hands turned snow-white.

  “What happened?” the oldest Afton laughed, an empty, humorless sound, “Sallie is dead. Your Mom is dead. She killed herself. Took a blade to her arm in the bathroom. Anything else you would like to know,  _ Michael _ ?”

  The silence was only broken by James’ broken sobs and the slam of the car door as William left the brothers alone.

_ 1983, September 14 _

  Michael Afton had many reasons to hate silence, both as a physical absence of sound and as a concept. Silence always seemed to eat away at his mind when he was left alone to his devices, and it had a tendency to come into effect every Afton tragedy that happened so far. 

  So, this? He should’ve known that something was happening, but hey, Mike was never the brightest. Or good at anything, anyway. Except of brooding and being the worst brother.

  He was too late.

  The moment he heard a sickening  _ crack,  _ everything stopped. The laughter, the music, the dark glee he felt from taking out his anger on someone else, someone he loved. There was another second of stillness, until the sounds came back, crashing in, imploding.

  Quietly chanting ‘ _ no, no, no _ ’, Michael rushed on stage and attempted to pull Freadbear’s jaws open with his hands, dull teeth digging into the skin of his palm and tearing at his skin, but he pained no mind to pain (which he probably deserved). The jaws gave away, slowly, and Mike had to hurry to hold James’ body before he slid off onto the floor.

  Blood immediately stained his grey shirt, and dripped down the the abandoned Foxy mask. The younger Afton gently pressed his hand on the wound, stopping the flow of the blood. James seemed to have passed out, so that was… well, not good, but it was better than him being conscious and feeling pain. Small miracles, right?

  Mike’s hands were shaking, and he felt tears dripping down his face in an unending flow that he had no will to stop he was barely aware of all the noises around him, hushed whispers and rushed conversations, the sounds of sirens nearing with every second. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder, too big to be his Father’s. He turned around, to look into Henry’s kind, brown eyes, and even as the ambulance took James away, he couldn’t will himself to run after them. He couldn’t stop them from tearing this little brother from his arms, couldn’t stop himself from doing  _ this _ to James, couldn’t save Mom, couldn’t save Elizabeth, couldn’t save anyone.

  And even as he cried into Henry’s arms, he knew. He knew he deserved this hollow pain that filled his heart. He deserved all of it.

  And then he looked up, saw the cold, rage-filled eyes of his Father, and wires and claws and fangs and rotting flesh and-

_ Present _

  … And he woke up.

  The sound of gravel alerted him that they were nearing their house, and, as he sniffled and wiped drying tears away with the palm of his hand, he couldn’t help but welcome it’s tall, dark shadow. The house that he loved, the house that he hated, the house he couldn’t imagine his life without. It was their house, and that provided some ghostly comfort that Mike didn’t feel he deserved, but still craved. The same way he craved Father’s attention, and the quietness of a grave.

  But it would be some time until he could find himself 6 feet under, so for now his house will do.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I need to write a new chapter I haven't updated in 3 months i beg you  
> My inspiration and will to live, leaving: oOH, HOW UNFORTUNATE, O-oH, HOW-
> 
> anyway thank you everyone who left comments on previous chapters, i love you so much)))  
> Oh, and here some Michael I drew yesterday - https://artcorpse-blu.tumblr.com/post/175514693062/michael-from-my-fnaf-fanfic-devoiddevotion  
> Title from hHouse of Memories by Panic! At the Disco


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